


he gives them butterflies, bats his cartoon eyes

by aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Kinda, M/M, Repressed Memories, Slow Burn, dark themes, hisoka and illumi are their own warning, let's see where this goes, loosely inspired by Lolita, mentions of established relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-02-27 14:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18740764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm/pseuds/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm
Summary: Hisoka disappears one day after an encounter with a man in possession of an extremely rare hatsu. Illumi embarks on a quest to find him, as he still has need of both his aid and his abilities and, eventually, he does find Hisoka… but with the addition of an unfortunate complication that greatly derives his plans.





	1. An itch of anger

**Author's Note:**

> i LiEd. why do i do this to myself and start a new series when i have other projects uhfbngm,hmnh
> 
> *takes a deep breath*
> 
> This will be more like a series of connected drabbles that I will post whenever I have a writer's block. So this more like a relaxation technique tbh.
> 
> Title taken from the song Carmen by Lana del Rey, which is the main tune for this awful thing.

The boy woke to insistent shaking and panicked murmurs. Amid the darkness of the shared room, big blue eyes stared down at him, wide, streaked with burst vessels.

“Yoshino. Yoshino, open your eyes.” Ayame attempted to whisper, too desperate to properly lower his volume.

The one called Yoshino blinked wearily, processing the noises around him, the potent fear weighting on the atmosphere, the confused sounds of trailing feet, and then sat up on the bed, taking a glimpse of Ayame’s disheveled clothes. He must have dressed in a hurry, was the first thought he had, still a little disoriented from being woken so abruptly.

“What is going on?” he asked even as his head swiftly turned towards the open door. His ears stung, a foreboding shiver raised goose bumps on his naked arms.

Something was coming. Something dangerous.

As he pushed the blankets entwined around his legs, Ayame shook his head frantically, “We don’t know. Headmaster came, Yoshino. Woke some us. Said we had to hide. Said to s-spread the message.” His teeth chattered, his sentences came out short and point blank.

Yoshino hummed, grimacing internally at how his fists were shaking. He didn’t appreciate his instinctual reaction, too in tune with that of frightened Ayame who couldn’t even speak without biting his tongue.

He stood up, and the other kid looked at him as if he had just remembered who he was talking to. Stammering, he said, “Hea-headmaster t-t-told us to go the bo-boi-boiler room,” avoiding Yoshino’s piercing slits through which glowing intensity could be seen.

“Okay.” Yoshino answered simply,

Ayame almost fell on his way to the door, clumsy feet slipping on the futons laid out on the wooden floorboard. Yoshino watched him leave, three other children following close behind.

In the crammed hallway uniformed men went to and fro, cutting through the sea of boys and girls running past them like dulled knives; they harshly shouted into their radios, gestures and tones too aggressive to be assuring, unintentionally revealing how dire the situation was to the observing eye.

More kids rousing some from sleep or ordering the ones that stood idly  without a single clue on how to act or what to do around. They kept their distance from Yoshino as if being in his proximity while he was awake would result in disaster. He remained silent, waiting for everyone to leave in the direction of the basement where the boiler room was located.

Nervous glances were thrown his way every now and then, and he reciprocated with a show of teeth that felt more strained and fake than usual. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, the only sign of his growing anxiety.

He drummed a beat on his thigh, willing the rest of them to get out already.

Once they did and he was alone at last, his hand disappeared beneath his mattress, seeking the screwdriver he’d stolen a few days ago from the garage, sweat and a vague thrill like that of getting away with murder (ha) pooling at his temples. Holding it tight in a clammy palm, he used it to pry the screws of the air duct that was conveniently placed next to the foot of his bed loose. Nobody had questioned why he had chosen the worst bed in the room for his own, many of his 'roomates' preferring to sleep on the floor than go anywhere near the larvae dwelling den that was the bed's wooden skeleton and the blood-soaked sheets and piss scented springs and pillows, but Yoshino knew they must have wondered, in the safe spaces where they thought he could never reach, and that most settled on it being just another symptom of whatever inherent meanness made him aloof, as welcome to friendship as a bee sting on a cut and strange in that creeping way gremlins and goblins in stories were. Another item to add to the list of his numerous idiosyncracies, that was what it was as far as clueless infants were concerned. Little did they know that while they dreamed of privilege and played guessing games, he only had in mind scenarios like this. The world falling apart as quickly as it had come together, taken over by the mindlessless of panicked youths and their wobbly screams, and nowhere left to hide. He picked up the screws, moved the screen to the side, and flattened himself on the floor, crawling on his hands and knees to fit in the small opening. When he was inside, his stomach and elbows pressed to the cool material of aluminum, he grabbed the screen and positioned it over the entrance again to give the impression that there was nothing amiss.

The Headmaster was an idiot, telling the children to take refuge in the most obvious example of a default go-to hideout. If whatever or whoever was coming had more than two functioning brain cells, they or it would know immediately where to go to—as long as it was the children, and not anything else, they were after.

He sat far enough to not be seen through the gaps in the screen and he leaned his head back, nursing his hopes, his dreams, his wishes—his fingers twitched at the imaginary touch of his unspoken vows, brushing skin, inciting him to make it out this one alive. His knees bent as they snuck under his chin and his skinny arms went around them.

It wasn’t long before the howls tore the night apart, reaching Yoshino through the distance. What could have been a shower of shots exploded, he could almost hear the fumbling of hands as they tried to reload their magazines, the sudden drop of volume mass as soldiers began to succumb, the soft cries of the others down in the basement, unable to process the reality in which menacing violence was being unleashed so close to the lull of their stale, regular, pretty much uneventful way of living. Like lambs being shown their underbelly was meant to be pierced by the sharp tools in their caretakers hands.

Yoshino thought he would have liked to witness the carnage, given the chance, if it hadn’t been deeply intertwined with the current uncertainty of his own fate.

His eyes closed. His head smashed into the protruding bones of his knees and he forced himself to release the strenuous hold he had on his consciousness. Eventually it slipped, and floated away, like a balloon—far above it went and in a breath or two he was under.

He dreamt of cotton candy, barren lands that were more trash than land, living corpses climbing piles of waste, and a faceless boy wearing a kimono, hair and skirt billowing in the wind.

While he slept he didn’t sense the soundless and gentle padding of shoes that soon followed the creeping quiet that bled inside from the decimated outside.

What woke Yoshino for the second time that night was the pungent scent of blood. It was thick, heavy, and invasive; he felt, for a torturous and blissful second, that he had fallen asleep inside a butcher shop instead of Sunshine-Valley House. It also blocked his breathing pathways and he nearly returned to consciousness coughing, scrambling not to choke on the deathly fume.

His eyes opened to complete darkness. The light-bulbs in the hallways must have had finally gone out. Or someone must have taken them out on purpose. This thought cleared his head, and had him swallowing, almost shyly, fearing that the tiniest of movements might trigger an unfavorable reaction; his ears strained in search of signs of foreign breaths, or life in general, but came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only silence. The maddening bumps of his heart. The rush of blood that chilled within his veins. Too loud.

He crawled to the mouth of the vent, screwdriver in hand, counting his breaths, pupils dilated in the now much more ominous lack of illumination, cursing the telltale dragging sounds his limbs couldn’t help but produce as he slid forwards.

Heart at his throat, he watched with acute concentration as his fingers slipped maddeningly slow in between the cracks of the screen that kept him apart from the looming threat which had summoned the quiet, that which clung to the footsteps of the lifeless.

Swallowing. Sweating. The screen fell to carpeted floor with a muted _thud_. Yoshino’s breaths stammered as he peeked outside his haven.

Brightness surged with enough violence to submerge him in a sea of fulminating white. As fatal shock overtook him, so did the gripe of cold biting fingers above his elbows, forcing him out swiftly from his hiding place. All he could do was gasp, screams pooling inside his chest, unable to escape, vocal chords just as helpless as he was, and his knees grappled across the vent, the skin screeching due to the friction that was ignited by the futile pull of his resistance.

His arm moved quicker than the incoherent mess of thoughts he failed to string together.

Like a carefully practiced succession of events, a squelching, meaty sound echoed as the screwdriver in his hand sunk into something thick. Yoshino, almost unconsciously, drove further pressure into his wrist, the screwdriver yielded further down, and he felt as his fingers were coated in a sticky wet substance.

His ears stung and rang, he thought he was fainting, he was cold, colder than ever. A horrible and yet enticing dread, or a sensation akin to it, enclosed the atmosphere, drained it from air, and it was now taking Yosino’s shivering and sweaty form captive.

He realized he was being held above ground level; his legs were swinging like broken mind-wills, and if he struggled he would find nothing in the immediate surroundings that could offer them support.

How was he still alive?

His eyes fluttered, seeking to accommodate to the abrupt exposure to illumination. The bright spots in his sight started to vanish, sinking into the pale grays that composed the color scheme of the room. Taking what he assumed to be his last breath, he blinked, torturously slow, and looked finally at his captor.

Recognition hit him like a bus at full speed.

The man from the park stared listlessly back at him. The eyes that chased him as he made his rounds were the same— circular beacons of ink from which light bounced off, as they were filled with nothing and reflected nothing in return. The perfect porcelain crafted face that emoted aloofness alone was the same too. His long hair was braided, kept away from obstructing his view, and it slithered down his silhouette like a lazy reptile. The purple fabric of the man’s long sleeved shirt vomited small bursts of blood from his right shoulder, where Yoshino had stabbed him. He seemed to be unaware of this, holding the confused eyes in front of him like he would a hand in a sign of camaraderie.

 _He should have avoided it. Such a clumsy attempt shouldn’t have even grazed him_ , it occurred to Yoshino harshly, for no reason at all, his fingers loosening their grasp on the screwdriver as what he now knew was blood made the task of holding on increasingly difficult. A strange flare of annoyance burst within him, and was quickly turning into a different emotion altogether.

“Did you think that I would not find you?” the man said in the calm and composed monotone that had haunted Yoshino’s dreams, the dead-tuned melody that had slowly clawed at the feeble string of his sanity for weeks, “Did you think you could hide from me?”

Yoshino’s head ached; his blood was rushing upwards faster than he could take. The grim, unfeeling mouth of this monstrosity of a man turned at the edges, forming a mechanical, unnatural smile.

“Well, I found you, Hisoka. Just like I promised.”

The dam broke at once and the waters of his rage overflowed. The boy let out an irate howl, incensed, possessed by a wrath he would never be able to explain in this lifetime, and his fingers were again driving the screwdriver hard into flesh, willing it to tear open.

The man didn’t even react. Didn’t even flinch. The dark twist to his smile, however, amplified as the boy in his arms lashed out in a maddening ire and the confusion in those narrow eyes dimmed until all that was left was the most voracious of infernos.


	2. Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, not everyone is in agreement with Juliet's thoughts on the importance of names.

When he had been pushed inside the expensive vehicle, Yoshino had crawled along the backseat until he was curled on the other end, tensely molding his back to the door. The man had not said a word, just climbed inside without even gracing him with his fish-like stare.

Twenty minutes had passed since then. The man’s shoulder stopped bleeding at some point; Yoshino’s attack had apparently been just as deadly as a paper cut.

He couldn’t banish the smell of death from his mind. The air freshener only served to remind him of the carnage he had just left behind.

_Hisoka._

He raised his head from where it had been buried— like some downgraded version of a cocoon—in between his knees. He disentangled his arms, leaving his neck exposed to the cold, and swiped at the red ribbons tumbling down from his head.

Yoshino swallowed, stealing a side-glare towards the man’s ghostly profile.

 “Who are you?” He uttered at last. His throat was sore, it screamed white rage when he spoke, and the question came out with the smoothness of a scratched record. _What is it that you want? Why did you kill them all? How did you do it?_

_Who is…?_

 “I see you have finally calmed down.”

The insensitive resonance echoed across the cramped space.

Yoshino swallowed down a hot wave of something unpleasant. Calmed down, he said. As if this piece of work with the dead eyes hadn’t walk inside one of the most important prostitution rings in the city, and not only managed to singlehandedly wipe out everyone without working a sweat, but had also kidnapped him without an ounce of hesitation. As if he hadn’t technically stalked him for weeks, months even. As if he was just a whiny, snotty, little brat that was overreacting for no reason at all.

Yoshino wanted to _kill him_. Paint him red. Red, dripping from that immaculate cascade of hair. Red, covering the elegant fingers on the steering wheel. Slaughter him like a pig, like he slaughtered the—

He shook his head. The screams for murder faded from his sight.

“What do you want from me?” He snapped, annoyance coiling around him like a hungry snake.

“This bothers me,”  the man sighed, picking an errant strand of hair by the curve of his ear.

He was being ignored.

Again.

The boy continued firing questions at the expense of his simmering anger, not actually expecting any of them to be answered. He just wanted something concrete to hold onto rather than the griping sea of uncertainty he was immersed in.

“Why did you do it? Where are we going? Why am I still alive?”

The words froze at the base of his throat, as black marbles pinned him down through the rearview mirror.

“Eh? Could it be that you would actually prefer death?”

It wasn’t said, but the twelve year-old heard that lilting absentmindedness mouth as clear as gunshot: _At my hands. I could still do it._

“No,” Yoshino hissed, the little hairs on his arms and nape standing high, the same sticky, suffocating feeling from before strapping his nerves tight, “No,” he repeated, hating that plain and lightless stare, the heavy atmosphere, the latent helplessness, “I was just wondering why—“

“Why you?” Dry amusement bled from his tone so subtly that, if Yoshino hadn’t been tense as a wire, paying attention to every minute action and to the killer’s general demeanor, he wouldn’t have noticed the small change. “Why the others and not you? What makes you special enough to deserve saving? Why did I choose you?”

Yoshino would have felt an angry blush crawling to his cheeks from having been read so clearly by a stranger. But he just felt numb. His blood was frozen inside saturated veins and it wouldn’t budge in any direction— this, he knew.

“What a strange child.” The man said, slightly leaning his head to the side, braid following along, “You think you know better than everyone else, you dismiss orders, you abandon your peers to their own fate. Recklessly attack a foe that you can’t defeat. Stay still when you ought to be looking for possible escape routes. Interrogate your captor as if you have any form of control over the situation.” He showed no wonder or disdain, in spite of the ‘strangeness’ he seemed to find in Yoshino’s behavior. It was just a simple statement of facts.

That was when his brain decided to join the dots.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, an insidious idea assuming a very clear physical shape in his bleary sight.

_Hisoka._

The murderer was like a whisper in the dark: the focus of attention when liberated from its shackles, and as it came out, it turned into a forgotten fixture once the action of the sound was drained from the air. So it wasn’t his fault, really, that in the blaze of his discovery he forgot about the calm before the storm.

Deliberately, he said, “My name. It’s Yoshino. Not-not what you called me.”

The reaction was immediate; the darkness returned with dizzying swiftness, sifting through his pores, paralyzing him where he sat. He thought he saw purple tendrils curling towards him, coming from the front seats, cutting through to tear at him.

In the horror that swept him, he failed to recognize the sound of screeching tires, the car stopping in the empty driveway, the city lights that faded one by one, leaving the agony of his uncertainty sea to drown him.

Perhaps, he should have—

And the human weapon that had paved a path of guts and limbs and gore in order to get to him finally regarded him. He did so slowly— slowly enough to allow Yoshino to burn in his retinas the rotation of that stringy neck, that he had the small window of opportunity to envision the sweet twist of a broken neck, as the muscle shifted beneath skin, wrinkling, stretching. His face was truly a feat of nightmares, only a mind deeply submerged in disturbed deliriums would be able to fabricate the bizarre, big-eyed mask that welcomed Yoshino’s muted scrutiny and silenced the world beyond the confines of the car.

The man leaned forward, right hand abandoning the wheel. Yoshino’s intake of oxygen solidified in his ribcage.

That slim-boned hand descended swiftly on bare skin, above his left knee. The touch was scalding, it raised nervous shivers as it relocated along the leg, and dreadful phalanges crept on the underside, capturing the tiny mole beneath his knee that even he had not realized he possessed until a few days ago. The man’s large fingers rubbed the spot where the mole was, dripping intent, and ~~Hisoka~~ Yoshino felt his legs spreading, sliding across leather, instinct taking over as the familiarity of the setting eased in his consciousness.

The movement stopped. Black eyes darkened further, somehow, overflowing with a tortured blankness as they dropped to the area of contact between his hand and the boy’s skinny leg. Yoshino looked at him—at the tight strain of his broad shoulders, at the tenuously unfeeling expression he wore, the rings of fingers that would soon be imprinted on the white of his knee, the teething creeping static pinching him from all sides.

There was a mesmerizing quality to this madness, an itch that wasn’t that of anger. He could not explain what it was, not in mere words.

The boy’s eyes batted open and closed with the instability of a revolving door, he licked the dry curve of his upper lip, the tension coursing through the extension of his body heightened.

“You know me.” He was able to ascertain, even though he couldn’t really move, even though he was shaking with something far more complex than fear or rage.

The bite of pressure around the frailty of his leg was a warning. The thin, soothing slips as he talked, a reminder. The bone could snap in splinters, if that was what his captor desired. “Hisoka is Hisoka. Anything else is a fiction.”

Breathless, the boy's murmur rang, tingling like touching bells.

“Who are you?”

Endless night bore into flashing amber.

“Illumi Zoldyck.”                    

When the man pulled away his fingers shook, as if struck with the aftershocks of burning sparks. Carrying the beating heat of touch with them, they returned tensely to close around the wheel, knuckles aggressively pushing against their caging. The man’s face remained impassive. Illumi.

Illumi Zoldyck.

The vehicle roared back to life.

“Put on your seatbelt.” The boy rushed to obey, unconsciously. He imagined the purple cloud still weighing on the atmosphere seeping right where the man had grabbed him, where he had harshly taken a hold of one of his identifying marks.

 ~~Yoshino~~ swallowed. A sting of pain, leaking crescents on his thighs. His nails were bloody. So were the hem of his shorts. Somehow he hadn’t felt the needle ends of his own hands clinging to the soft meat of his thighs.

Hisoka _._

It was scary how right it felt to be called by that name.


	3. Respect, or lack thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarcasm and humor as unhealthy coping mechanisms are strong in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drabbles, i said. ha.

It was just their luck that Yorkshin was the epitome of the urban lifestyle, lively and active at all times, even on the outskirts, even at this ridiculous hour. That meant that any establishment interested in keeping the income of jenny steady was open on a twenty three hour basis. Mister Zoldyck over there in the driver’s seat seemed to want to take advantage of this, as he was currently parking what the redhead could now safely assume—now he that had enough clarity of mind to actually think— was a rented car in front of one of the most decadents and luxurious clubs in the city.

Neon lights blinded him after spending so much time cradled by darkness. Countless of working bodies crowded the streets. He could feel the vibrations of man-made noise bouncing against the windows.

A valet approached their car with prudent hesitation.

“Hisoka,” Blank-faced Illumi called before stepping out, clearly expecting it would prompt him to follow.

Yoshi-

No. It was Hisoka now.

 _Hisoka_ internally rolled his eyes, chasing after his captor’s coattails. He climbed out. Night breeze quickly gripped at his legs and arms, waking goose-bumps. He was getting used to that still; the uncharted tides of identity.

Yoshino had been the designation he was collared with when he had been first brought to Sunshine Valley. It was a common name for prostitutes, which had been fitting, given the circumstances. For a while Yoshino had been the mirror he had held up to the world in order to understand it; the sickly boy of exotic eyes and blemish-less legs with a rapid tongue who only knew of forbidden touch, tainted money and soft cries muffled in the dead of night. But that was the extent of his attachment to that name. Waking in the middle of nowhere, nameless and alone, being forced to join an underground organization for survival—none of that meant that he had to be the scrawny, pathetic, breathless thing the greasy headmaster or the handsy guards or the pathetic clients decided he was.

As…for his… traveling companion…

He looked up, a curious gleam contained in the gold of his irises. The man was currently ahead of him, his large strides increasing the distance between them with every step he took. The boy slowed his pace.

If, just if, Hisoka couldn’t keep up with the man and he happened to drag behind and accidentally became lost among the crowd, then, what would…

Sandal-clad feet ceased advancing. The braid shrilled like an angry snake as the murderer turned to pin Hisoka with the hollow pits that served him in place of normal eyes.

In a matter of seconds he materialized beside him. “Now, now, this is not the time to be getting funny ideas. Behave yourself.” The clutch that surrounded Hisoka’s neck was a suffocating vice, completely at odds with Illumi Zoldyck’s carefree and relaxed manner of speech.

 _I’m not a pet_ , he wanted to growl, exposing every tooth.

His left knee shook, dealing with the aftermath of muscle memory.

…Yes, getting used to _that_ was infinitely harder than anything else he had to confront at the moment. For now, the humiliation of the leash would have to do.

“You kidnapped me,” Hisoka hissed through a mocking grin and the bite of fingers around his throbbing nape, “to bring me here? Really?”

 _Quiet_ the pressure on his neck seemed to warn, as he was dragged like a particularly unruly dog towards the inside of the club. Hisoka choked on his bitterness, stirred on it in sarcastic silence.

No one batted an eye at the sight of a pre-teen being forced around by a grown up man; the why was clear once they stepped inside. Depravity of all sorts greeted his weary mood, women and men and children entertained the opulent clientele in ways that were not at all new to him, in stages, on countertops, and tables and couches, and he felt as the unwanted touch of fingers turned akin to the burn of a scarring brand.

As they approached the bar, Hisoka raised a hand, gently curving it over the potent pulse beating at the wrist which kept him passive and obedient, forcing onyx holes to part from the obscene displays and deign his presence. His lashes swept down, his gaze narrowed provocatively.  Innuendos were caught in the slithering yellow that shone a dozen glimmers of wicked nature.

“Why Mister Zoldyck,” his mouth was set on a teasing pout, his voice fell a tad darker, a tad breathier than it should have, “if a taste is what you wanted, you only had to ask.”

Hisoka bridged the space between them, and there went his calves, and the balls of his feet, standing, floating above ground, all of his weight distributed to the strain of his toes. He wasn’t tall enough yet to be able to look over the man’s shoulder, despite his leanness. His forehead still rested far from his intended goal: the spot just below the hollow of a strong throat, where clavicles met, perfect for nestling.

The man who had violently intruded on the false orphanage with murder in his mind failed to provide him with a visible reaction. But Hisoka, if nothing else, was prodigious in the art of luring hidden animals to wander far from foliages, caves and lairs, and he smiled mockingly, dainty hand of untrimmed nails and poorly disguised cigarette burns coming to rest on the murderer’s heartbeat, uncaring of the echoes of familiarity that plagued him as the scene became clearer: his forward posturing versus the reticent airs, the nasty glare of teeth and the firmly set mouth, the mischievous twinkling and the unreadable immensity, the shared breath, and the tension knitted deeply into his muscles, waiting for the inevitable break.

His reaction might not have been visible, but it was felt. Hisoka was in for a neck full of bruises, for sure, if those fingers were to continue digging as though they ached to be every sinew and nerve traversing it.  The boogeyman’s heartbeat in turn was too calm for it not to be a carefully devised response.

That hand, which had killed dozens upon dozens, struggling against him, and that rhythmic tune, which must have picked up at some point during his night hunt, solemn beneath his touch. And it was familiar, somehow. This paradox.

“You never know when to shut your mouth.”

_You know me._

Hisoka inhaled stale smoke, citrus perfume, acidic sweat and a deep primal smell, which could only be that of blood, occult underneath the other scents’ pungent dance. He felt stuck again, in the car, an unnervingly hot caress on the underside of his knee.

He made to say something— _will you teach me how?_ —but a needling sensation fell upon his nape and slashed harshly through the moment, rupturing it like an angry child throwing a temper tantrum over a subpar drawing, ripping the paper in half.

He turned, not noticing the rapid shift that pupil-less eyes did  before he even conceived the thought of moving.

The jut of his hipbones hitched in recognition, insect-like paws itched at his thighs, ankles caved in under an unimaginable pull. _Richard_ , his brain provided unhelpfully. Beady eyed, soft-spoken, closet-sadist fucker who had caused him more bone fractures than he could count on two pairs of hands.

He was looking at Hisoka now, from the other side of the room, a scarcely dressed girl on his lap, planting kisses on his disgusting jaw, and a naked, blue haired boy between his legs, performing what he himself had been obligated to do barely five days ago.

Fingers let loose, his skin rose, draped in shivers, and the threatening prints left on him resonated, like afterimages of echoing memory, screaming abandonment.

“Stay here,” Illumi Zoldyck ordered with his brand of tranquil emptiness, and Hisoka could only stare owlishly at the broad rigidity of his shoulder-blades as he began to follow the trail of breadcrumbs towards Richard, deadly efficiency drafted onto each of his movements, as if he couldn’t afford any of them to go to waste.

All of the previous tension was instantly forgotten. 

He was—

(the courtyard littered in body parts, bloodstained grass feeding from the eerie brushes of midnight dew, the soft exhalations of velvety cologne coming from the ghost of a scar beneath the man’s ear, where he had breathed unevenly against, as he was held in the unbreakable shackles of solid arms, carried through the infested cemetery of his keeper’s own making)

Hisoka was forced to suck in his conflictive emotions. The volume of their hollering decreased and among them, resolve fought tooth and nail to prevail.

Right then, he should have heeded the calls of his curiosity, stayed and determined what Illumi Zoldyck wanted with that man, what business did they have together that was urgent enough that Illumi would risk leaving Hisoka alone, unsupervised. He should have shrugged off the warning and eavesdropped anyways.  Followed the figures that quickly beelined for the entrance of the club, after Illumi leaned in and whispered something in Richard's ear, draining any semblance of lividness at being interrumpted from the businessman's face. There were many things he should have done, but instead, he preferred to toe the line of adrenaline, the one he had forsaken in the car, submerged in dread, controlled by fear, and his choice was made under the influence of his desires.

Thus, he ignored the command. He did not stay. Whatever happened, he was bound to find out.

Hisoka slipped through the breaches in the mingling pool of drunkards and dancers and executives and mafia heads and workers as swift as a passing rumor. Limbs crooned at him from time to time, demanding attention; he avoided them, slid around obstacles with laughable ease, his steps light, and the spring in them hurried.

His captor (or rescuer, depending on the perspective) did not follow.

It was not that Hisoka believed he had any real possibilities of escaping.

However, he was eager to know how far he could push before he was forced to retreat.

The answer, in the end, was fifteen minutes.

That was also the amount of time it took him to get over from one end of the club to the other. His roaming about endless, badly lit, emptied and decaying corridors finally set him on the right track, and he soon found an escape route. He turned a corner, darkness at his heels, and there it was.

The green fire exit sign beckoned like a victory chant at the end of the narrow passage.

A distasteful purple light bulb coughed in and out of functioning, hanging perilously from the ceiling by a gnawed slip of thread.

Silence ran amok on this side of the club, it was the kind of silence that deafened and swallowed the rest of the senses. The ruffled laughter and high-pitched moans had faded at the exact instant the chic décor transitioned to the shuddering apparel that characterized run-down buildings. Granted, he understood why anyone would choose to loiter somewhere with better lighting, relatively pleasant smells that weren’t that of piss, animal droppings and humidity and mold, and far from horrifically painted walls that didn’t look like they were rotting from the inside, crawling with rats and cockroaches alike. But he was testing, experimenting, and he really didn't have a choice on the matter of locations.

His heart on his mouth, already weary and fed-up with the oppressive atmosphere, Hisoka’s legs drove him towards the door. He rested five spread fingers on the rusty surface, while the other five descended to hover cautiously over the knob.

Anxiously, he kept the oxygen resting within his lungs at bay.

_Creak._

The hinges of the door shrilled and the sound reverberated throughout the lonesome corridor like a drawn out scream.

From mouth to navel, that was how far his heart fell.

Hisoka’s sneer solidified on his lips, a last protective measure against the chilling energy that crept in through the slight opening of the door. It was like it was reaching, this obscure entity, bestowing appendages to the blackness.

The head leaned in first— popped inside with the abruptness of a bursting balloon—, a pale blob of effervescent brightness attached to what seemed like an abnormally elongated sweep of neck, negative strands fabricating a nebulous halo around it, deformed eyes immense and bleak in the sparse illumination of the hallway. Close second came the peaks of spidery knuckles as they curled over the door, fingers slowly drumming _tap tap tap_ a smidgeon above the desperate push of Hisoka’s own.

There was a drop of blood on Illumi’s chin, very red and very odd-looking. Some of that gore inclined oddity could be glimpsed too lining the tender flesh protected by the cover of nails. Hisoka was certain that this was all intentional; for someone who had walked off a slaughter site without a tear of red on him, sloppiness was not allowed to be anything other than deliberate.

He wanted him to _see_. Wanted him to be aware of what had become of Richard’s fate.

A humid silhouette in the shape of the readhead's hand was left on the door, glistening, as his palm slid down the chipped painting, and the boy stepped back, eyes unrelenting in their pursuit of the man’s every move, calves sticking to the filthy wall on his right at some point in his retreat.

The door shut closed, the rest of Illumi’s body swooshed in like a rash gust of wind.

“Were you going somewhere?”

He sounded pleasant, perhaps even cheerful, compared to his usual inflection. One skeletal digit casually rubbed at the incriminating splotch on his face as he talked. After he was done Illumi held the finger up to eye level and detachedly examined the copper coloration on the pad.

His chin was still smudged with residues of blood, and it looked like he was wearing the stain of crimson lipstick instead.

“Nope, Mister Zoldyck. The thought didn’t even cross my mind.” Hisoka said innocently, shoulders cringing inwards. “I was just scouting the place.” He flashed a smile, dimples twinkling.

In an obvious attempt at deflecting the attention from his actions, the boy wondered aloud, “And where were you? What where you doing? I was starting to get bored, all by myself.”

Illumi’s lids winked like the ones on a doll would, “Ah, is that so? I was not expecting it would take me so long. I must admit I got carried away.”

 _Otherwise he would have caught up with him sooner_ , was the underlying message. _  
_

He lifted an arm, and as he did, dark tendrils appeared to awaken again, curling, twisting, seething—reaching. Hisoka’s pupils dilated, observing its progress as it neared.

“He was disrespectful beyond belief. So much that his proximity alone was sickening. Some people need to be taught the meaning of respect. But spoiled and rotten individuals like that man require a more… permanent reinforcement. Their behavior cannot be enabled without eventual punishment.”

Wait. _Respect?_

Hisoka’s eyes duplicated in size.

From all the reasons, all the motives he could have had for doing it, he had murdered Richard out of some need to enforce a distorted ideal of respect? This, from the very same man who had dragged him around and—

_Ha!_

Well, that was just—

Unbelievable.

The arm froze in the air, phalanges tingling, millimeters away from enclosing his bare shoulder, startled by the sudden combustion of mirthful cackles flowing from the boy’s bent form, “Pfffft!!! Haahahahahaha!!!”

Gold squinted gleefully, forearms plastered to the curved bow of Hisoka’s stomach while he laughed wholeheartedly, genuine joy climbing out to infect their surroundings with the same load of mirth.

 “How amusing! What an amusing person you are, Mister Zoldyck!”


	4. Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To eat or not to eat, that is the question.

“You are an assassin.”

Illumi Zoldyck’s mouth pursed, the corner of his lips pointing minutely towards his chin. “It took you this long to figure that out?”

“Well, excuse me, I was too busy wondering about the logistics of this whole walking-around-looking-like-a-serial-killer-like-it’s-nobody’s-business-gig to remember to stop and start a game of Clue with you.”

And Hisoka wasn’t just saying that to save his pride either. That had been one of his major concerns since they entered the diner at four am, Illumi still sporting the fruits of his endeavors on his long-fingered hands, the result of Hisoka’s momentary sanity slippage tainting his shoulder a dried sepia color that was unmistakable in its nature, and Hisoka himself, all bloodshot eyes and skin, laces of inflamed bruises around his upper arms and neck, exuding sweat like a staggering fountain of confusion and unrest. 

It was honestly baffling that Illumi hadn’t bothered to change his bloodied shirt, or at least have the dignity to not look one hundred percent guilty of having committed several questionable and definitely illegal actions in a span of mere hours, and somehow not a soul seemed to notice his suspicious state of being, the telltale signs that told of the darkness concealed under the man’s elegant nonchalance. It was like everyone became collectively blind the moment they were in range of his, admittedly, beguiling presence.

Hisoka had been simultaneously annoyed and impressed when the smiling girl working the counter hadn’t batted so much as an eyelash at their dissonant, alarming appearances and simply proceeded to rattle off the day’s (night’s?) menu with a screeching high voice. Then again, anyone that worked this early in the morning and behaved on the unexplored levels of painfully cheerful was definitely toeing the line of insanity.

He briefly turned from the nightmare eyes digging unimpressed holes into his cheekbone to make another scan of the place, but yet again the obvious conclusion was that everyone was too immersed in the turbulent seas of their own personal shenanigans to notice his and Illumi’s trail of very loud, very obvious, nearly telemarketed horror. Which, in the end, was probably for the best.

But putting that aside, what else could he have said? Was he supposed to admit to having been too rattled from all the chaos leaking into his life like a maelstrom of unceasing disgraces to have taken the time to throw imprecise darts at the idea of what or who exactly Illumi was beyond the fact that he allegedly knew Hisoka? That remembering the feats Illumi had pulled off to perfection without a scratch or hint of harm only turned the man sitting next to him into a being that defied everything he assumed to be true?

“I surmised you came to this realization sooner. You have not attacked nor made a serious attempt to escape me after your first outburst.”

Hisoka instinctually bristled, like an angry cat, but ultimately stayed his peace; Illumi watched his tense profile attentively, it wouldn’t have been too out of context to compare him to a vigilant falcon, patiently waiting for the lethal slip up of his tiny, skittering mouse prey on the hunting ground below.

There was an undercurrent of disappointment in his statement that Hisoka chose to dismiss as a poor excuse of a jab at his pride. He refused to accept that a judging word, that a silent accusation pronounced by those jaded lips could sustain any sort of lasting effect on his viscerally shifting mood. Besides, from the careful pondering of their interactions so far, Hisoka had come to the now evident resolution that Illumi Zoldyck, other than murdering children, disposing of lowlifes and perpetuating casual kidnapping, took no small quantity of pleasure from carrying out the act of getting under the boy’s skin.

Most of the things that came out of his mouth were meant to be piercing, designed to pull at his most superficial of triggers straight by their fingers until nails were peeled and blood was spilled.

And this was truly, surprisingly, what troubled Hisoka the most—that lack of meat separating what they should have meant to each other, that lack or maybe excess or maybe not sufficient enough thickness to indicate what was the origin, the center of the undisclosed connection between them. What was it that kept killer and forcibly retired prostitute bound together, if it was not murder or lust or respect or deference or debt? He did not know, could not begin to guess.

Hisoka sighed, brushing the tip of his nose with the bridge of his index finger. “Assassin or not, you are far above my pay grade.”

“Oh?” Against a delicately clenched fist, the raven-haired man leaned the burden of his mischievous thoughts, the weight of his skull. Having escaped from the restrictive braid, a couple of loose inky strands tumbled down, cutting the shape of his cheeks in half.

Hisoka had an evocative picture forming in his mind already, he saw the tempting succession of events develop in a breath, a blink:  the knife forgotten by the side of his plate, clutched in his anxious hand, then forced through the skin and bone of Illumi’s swan neck; the forgotten fork too, gouging the offensive tongue that sibilated through porcelain lips, scooping bits of teeth and inner side of cheek in the name of gloating consumption.

(He did not understand that either, the violent, sizzling wound he was nurturing. The heightening peaks of a previously smoldered bloodlust that worsened the more he stayed in the orbit of the assassin’s influence.)

If he didn’t act, it wasn’t because he was stripped of that callous desire for retribution that had awakened in him as soon as he was dragged from his hiding spot, away from the safety of the vent, nerves and rage blooming in tandem.

 “I know when I’m beat.” The redhead raised his shoulders, lowered them, and tapped the acrylic of the counter with his grating nails. “I think it’d be stupid to try something that I know I can’t pull off. Especially after everything I’ve seen you do.”

A crooning dark sensation set his ears on fire. Illumi had not moved, had not changed expression, but the atmosphere surrounding him switched with the swiftness of a sudden blackout; the invisible reaching limbs, they now felt… pleasing, as if Illumi himself was pleased.

That the twelve year old could read this shift in tone so well was unnerving, to say the least. And a testament to a ton of suppositions that he wasn’t willing to look into too closely at the moment.

The monstrous man’s free hand slid across the scratched surface, stopping a few inches away from the pink side of Hisoka’s. Alongside his, Illumi’s hand looked brusquely grander, pristine and well-proportioned, with gorgeous digits that were just as capable of engraving pain into his body as they were capable of tearing down an army to accomplish an objective; as it was, he could envelop Hisoka’s mangled one easily, leaving not a piece of the child’s flesh in sight. It was all a mere reflection of the bigger picture: the beautiful, aristocratic man, performing such unrefined deeds; the beautiful, aristocratic hand, lined with silver, nearly untraceable scarring. The juxtaposition, the difference in size, rendered Hisoka tongue-tied.

Lightless vacuums dropped then to the greasy hamburger lying harmlessly, untouched, with zero bites, in front of the boy. _Busted,_ Hisoka intoned miserably in his head as they returned to him with a laser-like intent. He put on an innocent smile, fanning his lashes for effect.

“As fun as that meandering misdirection was turning out to be,” Illumi’s voice crawled from his throat, like a fat, slithering maggot surging from the Earth, had the abhorrent thing been as entrancing as it was disgusting, “Will you not eat?”

Hisoka’s grin expanded to hide the unsightly proof of an upcoming wince. Ah. Right. The topic he had been doing his utmost to avoid.

“Nope.”

He was not hungry. The unpredictable cocktail of emotions he had been served today had severely annihilated whatever shreds remained of his stomach. He felt unbalanced; anxious, wasted, tired, hyperactive—everything but normal.

Moreover, he did not want to eat anything that was provided by this man or his money. The boy conveyed this through the shadows lurking in his irises.

The hand he had been admiring before struck nimbly. There was no warning, no uneasy drop of temperature to broadcast the threat. Hisoka’s heels kicked out from shock, the smile on his face became a twisted, frayed replica of a real one, as he was seized harshly again.

Licks of fire, on his arm, on the inside of his elbow, where blood boiled at the savage feeling conjured by Illumi’s abrupt grip. The heat viciously accumulating beneath the frail layer of the skin on his arm confirmed the brisk presence of soon-to-be new bruising.

He handled him with an intoxicating familiarity, with a suffocating superiority that left Hisoka feeling parched in a most amiss manner, with his knees transitioning to swinging wind-bells, his heart about to be regurgitated to splatter on the counter —disturbance shrilled throughout his frame, maybe where they were touching, maybe somewhere deeper than that. He was like a soaked cat, easily lifted with one hand by the scruff of his neck or, in this case, by his arm. It was more than clear that Illumi could pick him up as if he was less substantial than a flimsy feather. Struggling was unthinkable; the caging hold would not budge no matter how much he wiggled or fought, he knew by how even the uncontrollable shaking that overtook him was swallowed by the uproar of Illumi’s strength. The breach between them increased with a debilitating yawn that intimidated Hisoka into immediate, unwilling submission.

Once more, the limit was a blurry, abstract division, not fully drawn, not fully established, and not even fully existent. What was the meaning exactly of this natural sense of entitlement that led this deceptive-looking sadist to force him to yield here? What was this crippling moment, what did it imply for the two of them?

“But you need to eat.”

And Illumi, whose eyes should not have been able to transmit any type of resilient resonance, whose countenance was an incorrigible blank slate, seemed to be writing upon himself a focused kind of attached compulsion as he encroached on Hisoka’s astounded form with his fuming, all-consuming gaze, which tugged at the zones where the boy was most notoriously skinny—the bare extension of legs, the overbearing protrusion of knees and shoulders, the poking bones of wrists, elbows and clavicles, the bit of arm that spread beyond his wrist but stopped prior to his forearm, where he was imprisoning Hisoka, the width of his limb insignificant in his clasp, a frail reddening thread when compared to lllumi’s own.

Hisoka burned beneath his stare, and so did the grabbed skin, pulsing along with the heavy treading of those infinite eyes, as if fearing to be crushed and obliterated at any second. He wanted to slap that unfeeling face, to feel his skin rupturing in crimson rivulets under his palm. Mockingly, the elongated hooks that were the raven’s fingers let go of him until the assassin was only seizing his arm with his index finger and thumb, which rubbed silhouettes of fire against him, and he sounded deviously, disgustingly smug when he said, “You are so thin.”

More than upset, it was like he was charmed by this palpable, discernable contrast.

“So you better eat.”


	5. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's panic time in otaku land~~

The first text came to life in the form of insistent tremors on his lap, the drawn out arrival, that disruptive sound, glowed in the darkness of the room, as sinister as a lone chord hissing noise into the paranoia-provoking extension of a hallway bereft of light, and Milluki, key mechanism to the most infamous assassin family in the globe, had nervously fumbled with the phone, his fingers slippery sticks of butter, clumsily letting go of the device in his anxious reverie a shameful amount of six times until he was able to take a hold of it properly, his heart a shrilling staccato that swallowed any semblance of quiet and moderate unrest the previous steady typing had kept under wraps.

His frozen face, somehow, shivered. It was a strange shiver of skin and skull, where no real movement was involved, and it was like the meager layer that protected his muscles was a material similar to fur or a that of a ruffled rug, instead of what was commonly (logically) known to be there, which was an analogy that injected a curling sense of unsettlement into an already disturbed consciousness. The clock floating on the right corner of the computer screen at the front of his vision reminded him in red, blocky letters:

**12:00 A.M.**

The hour shone horrified reminiscences into magnified measures.

He found the same timestamp reflected on the accusing beam of the cell-phone embraced in his sweaty palms, unintentionally causing the bursting of vessels in the white of his eyes. With a shuddering sigh, the second oldest Zoldyck child flipped the lid open. Although his fingers slid, imprinting wet vestiges on the metallic cover, he completed the task safely.

Aniki’s message was succinct, contrite and precise— three defining principles that were overall in line with the person Milluki had grown up with, and not remotely in line with the frayed side of his brother’s unexpected facetiousness he had started to progressively encounter in the course of the past year.

Squinting, the technology enthusiast of the family skimmed over twenty written names, sent as usual to confirm the quantity of jobs that were followed to conclusion throughout the day. There was also a reminder to contact the correspondent clients and inform them that the targets had been eliminated as requested.

It was no wonder then that Illumi had failed to show his face at all in Kukuroo Mountain that week, more likely than not having slaved his way through any other ongoing mission he had left aside so that these series of assassinations in particular were slotted in the most rushed and constrained time schedule possible, regardless of Mother’s probably-not-as-subtle-as-she-would-want jabs at her eldest’s absence, the plastic smiles she plastered onto her twitching mouth when Milluki failed to subside her need to know of her son’s whereabouts, and the early signs of a head-splitting migraine the chilling landscape framed by too many vacant seats at the dinner table ignited in her, troubled woman that she had turned into lately. None of her nagging, complaints and shrills would have managed to summon Illumi home anyways.

Milluki’s frontal teeth went to their reserved spot, bitten into crude reality on his lower lip, he watched the oval of his thumb shape the sober string of distant words, and, at 12:03 in the morning, he was answering in kind with a dry _Done._

What he dreaded, what he begrudgingly counted on, was reaffirmed ten minutes later.

_Arrived at mission location. I will also proceed to deal with Richard Adashino tonight. Expect my return in two days._

No goodbyes or explicit closure. No additional comments. End. Period. Finality laughed against his revealed nape. No other texts would haunt him from that moment on, of that he was sure. Not until two days had passed.

He lamented, if only shortly, that he was not stronger or smarter or more ambitious than he had always assumed himself to be. This scenario could have been detained, the madness could have been strapped to death before the infection had contaminated every nook and cranny of his peaceful universe, had he been—…His pupils dilated, moving to the side. The file was somewhere in the room, buried under the spread of pamphlets, gaming manuals, unfinished drawings, printed notes, and anime posters that fortified floorboard and walls. Everything inside that manila folder was paramount to the diffusion of the situation at hand. The probable catalyst was included there, in the records of the most recent developments. If by chance a mere whiff of that information's existence were to drift in their parents' direction,  it would raise their hackles through the roof and beyond, no doubt. However, Milluki’s hands didn’t budge. They remained decisively cradling the damned cell-phone, the damned response filled with the beliefs and intentions of Mother’s most frightening creation.

In retrospect, from the beginning of this nebulous, ambiguous cycle, interacting with Illumi had become a grueling process of guessing what verbal/behavioral rope he ought to avoid holding onto as to not get used as a source of food for lesser species or prevent the materialization of a trap door beneath his feet that would certainly lead to certain and unavoidable death. The simplest, most ridiculous assumption could make the difference between a farce of tranquility and the weight of tension bound around both his ankles; it was, in part, a bit like learning that the knife being held close to his throat all along was actually a different kind of weapon altogether, and that he should have paid more attention to the casual slide that came across as that of human teeth against the uncovered descent and ascend of his swallow, evidencing the threat, the unstable unpredictability preparing itself for the killing strike.

And as if that had not been worrisome enough, three months ago Illumi had darkened his bedroom doorway and casually encouraged him to do some research on his behalf—‘casually’ in this case meant that Illumi had dumped a list on top of Milluki’s desk and suggested in a more or less passive aggressive approach that he look into the people there mentioned and offer them the family’s trademark services, more specifically, _Illumi’s_. Milluki’s protests (because that was not how the Zoldyck’s functioned, the proceedings, the line of command, all of it was devastatingly wrong), tentative attempts at inquiring about the justification of this impromptu and forward involvement that Illumi had never cared to express before, and bewilderment at giving away their life’s work at a nearly insignificant price had been ignored. Had all gone silent, put under the strain of the gilded cage that his brother’s mute eyes built out of the fear and insecurities pullulating in the air. Illumi had leaned forward, his hair an encompassing mantle that appropriated his field of vision, and said, _Not a peep, Millu. I mean it._

Naturally the second sibling had done as asked, but, but, **but,** underestimation led to all forms of insubordination, and ultimately it hadn’t taken him much effort to investigate what these people had in common with each other and why they would be of notice to someone so dismissive of the ecosystem surrounding their hermetic inner bubble like his older brother was.

Soon, the pieces came together on their own, and at the center of the puzzle, there it was: Sunshine Valley— the decadent island on the outskirts of Yorkshin where each and every target wanted dead by Illumi’s handpicked list of clients assisted to on a nearly religious scale, like a  sick parody of pilgrimage. The more he had dug on the establishment and the mark’s backgrounds, the more he had realized it was no coincidence that all of Illumi’s selected roads led back to that disgusting whore-house, to Milluki’s increasing despair.

When he had seen the reality of the matter inconspicuously staring right at him from the screen, he had felt his intestines rioting with nauseating intensity. He did not inform Grandfather, Mother or Father about it, unfortunately, his tongue inherently faltering the moment he decided to spill the unsaid. He remembered well, too well, perhaps, the crusted, burgundy stripes, trampling on a large portion of his neck and left cheek (they had throbbed hotly, acidly, like the rumbles of his stomach, only hungrier and more short-sighted in their intent, and flies had often neared him in search of that smell’s origin point, of rotting, stale meat) he had been lovingly stamped with after aniki caught him trying to sneak poor, little Killua away from his crib. The look of him, as the foolish, young, jealous and dumb Milluki had stood, his digits smashed viciously to a small neck, had instantaneously deflated his front of bravery and all the contents of his belly in one horror fueled swoop. When the boy had recovered his bearings, he was on the ground, sobbing loudly, and his face was a scarred mess, the wounds crying hot rivers onto the ground; and yet, the pain was not grander or mightier than the primal, terror-spun strings that had taken possession of his body and soul, and all because of him, because of Illumi, his dearest brother and role model.

The lesson was learned. The ire of his brother's was not a risk that he should invite towards his person ever again.

_Not a peep indeed, Illu._

But Killua—Killua, who burned the brightest shocks of pride in Silva and Kikyo’s gaze, whom Illumi adored like a stifling chokehold adores the convulsions of a throat, loved in a tortured way that no one else, asides from him, could remotely assimilate—was one thing. His control excesses, his unfiltered violence, his overbearing surveillance, his obsession, for lack of a better word, in that context, those detrimental flaws (which sometimes quickly shifted into advantages, too) made sense, as the unspoken law that ruled the microcosm that was the Zoldyck family and rested on the blue-eyed heir was indisputable. _This_ was another breed of monster entirely, one that evaded classification with a deafening roar full of fangs and putrid secrets and a sharp array of dangerous hints of revolution that set Milluki’s teeth on a chattering ride.

The mystery insisted on preserving its foundations on the limbo of not quite-resolution, possessing enough clarity to be understood on a superficial level and yet displaying ambiguous, vague and vexingly frustrating phenomena that defied understanding even to the most observing of judges, witnesses and experts. As a man, this unforeseen core of unbalance was hardly pleasing to the eyes—Milluki’s eyes, that was—, his lone redeeming quality, as far as he was concerned, being the scorching ambers that smoldered in the lewd stare that, in the few instances Milluki had been subjected to its influence (via images, never in person, thankfully), leaped to attention as deeply disquieting— unnerving, in how it seemed to delve farther into the profoundly muddled unknown  than one’s imaginative capacity, in how gleefully twisted the shadows traced over it were, shadows that instead of hiding, clamored shamelessly for the spotlight—, although not without its merits, like the genuinely pretty color of his irises, which called for all sorts of interest and irked a basic inkling of curiosity that even Milluki could attest to. As a child, there were even less favorable factors to elaborate on, apart from the glaring imperfections. The malnourished aesthetic was not worthy of admiration, pity would have been a more acceptable consideration, revolt, most ideally, and he would never consider particularly attractive the exhibitionism of pointy ribs, the apparent frailty of a life form which had barely come into the world, already tainted with the worst branch of maturity, but the fascination the vermin that frequented establishments of Sunshine Valley’s reputation sustained for the ‘sublime’ view of starving children wearing pathetic scraps of clothing was a real predicament, was the reason why this… thing was so disturbingly solicited among this distinct demographic. Only the eyes retained the original edition’s charm (the one he had known, actually), and in that way, the appeal could be somewhat rationalized; the corrupted innocence he wore on his sleeve, that he nestled in the bite of his lips like a cherry flavored lollipop, and that rickety bridge in which he stood, straight in the middle of adulthood and infancy, were fireflies in the night to those repugnant souls that deliberately reached that forbidden glow, thinking of it as, well, arousing. It was, no doubt, a fascination that Milluki could share just as much as he could empathize with a bodybuilder’s dedication to cultivating their physique, meaning not in the slightest.

But for Illumi, who was immovable by the world outside their family, who was taught to be above such base desires, who thought of victims and abusers alike as little more than ants, who as a Zoldyck was too superior to concern himself with the lower strata of the underworld, what was the appeal exactly? Why bother? What was it that drove him to go to these lengths?

There were stakes in place that Milluki was not grasping quite yet, that no one was, except for the ones involved, and this not knowing (being blinsided) terrified him.

A woman who lost her daughter to a prostitution ring, praying for a successful execution. A brother who was cheated into selling his twin for food, broke and miserable, but content to know that retribution would rain down on his tormentors at last. Dozens upon dozens of ruined lives, affected by their inerasable connections to Sunshine Valley. The subsequent murders of Yukino Álvarez, Mike Hampton, Carmen Cornwell, Anita Hallow, and many, many others. The unsatisfied greed of a man who wished to overthrow his rival’s business and would even dare order the destruction of his adversary’s precious merchandise in order to achieve that goal. The screams of children, soon to taint the night red, for the sake of a silent killer’s plea. Every event, every misery—they were the necessary machinery of Illumi’s design. Forcefully knitted threads, they returned always to the alpha and the omega, the nameless curse that tied Illumi to the same location, the same point of conjunction where his needles met.

Milluki could guess at what the outcome of the older man’s actions would entail, and even though he wasn’t in the best position to verbally or physically refute, he unquestionably did not agree with what he was about to do (what he had been planning to do _for months, a year_ ). The forceful insertion of a foreign specimen into a carefully maintained environment, after all, tended to end, at least in his experience, in outright imbalance. Chaos. Disorder. Violent rejection.

The cocky, unbearable brat, gone. Mother’s pretty doll, gone too. There were already too many variables out of control. What else, then, was to befall them in their time of need?

As if summoned, his eyes nervously checked the timer on the screen. **12:30 a.m.** There was no way to tell if Illumi would choose to bide his time or if he would have already filled his quota for bloodshed by now, so it was futile to ponder on the details. The result would not change, would not differ from what Illumi had preordained.

A last question plagued him, though.

What would his brother be, Milluki wondered, were he to be freed from the restraints the very essence of being a Zoldyck required, relied on, even?

Maybe, just maybe, Mother and Father were mistaken in putting The Thing away on its own. By itself. Maybe, just maybe, they should have looked closer, should have thought twice before deeming the menace was over and done with once The Thing was behind bars.  There might have been another dangerous  and destructive child roaming about, after all.  A child, now an adult, dangerous enough to warrant a similar treatment...

_(Maybe, just maybe...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand Milluki is a drama queen. But, shhh, don't tell. It's our secret *wink wink.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is 100% appreciated so don't forget to leave a review :D


End file.
